I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world

I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loaf and invite my soul,
I lean and loaf at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, 
this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, 
and their parents the same,

I, now thirty seven years old in perfect health begin, 
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never 
forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.



Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are 
crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not 
let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume it has no taste of the 
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever....I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and 
naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, 
crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, 
the passing of blood and air through my lungs,

The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore 
and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loosed to 
the eddies of the wind,

A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs 
wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the 
fields and hillsides, 

The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me 
rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd 
the earth much? 
Have you practised so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess 
the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are 
millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor 
look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres 
in books,

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things 
from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

 from "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892) 
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of 
the stars. 
Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity,
When I give I give myself. 
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes). 

       ***
      *****
      @^ ^@
      ( 0 )
     __) (__
   /(^)(^)(^)

Outer Space - I nicked this from Red Dog

______________________________________________________________________ ...............Meeeeeeeeee aaaooowwww .....

Thanks to Red Dog (whose arrival I now await with trepidation).

Newly discovered chapter in Book of Genesis provides answer to
"Where do pets come from?"

Latest Messages

Conversations

Subscriptions

Friends

• IctoanAWEWawi
• Jak@wales
• Madam Kat, Goddess of things left writhing on the doorstep or half-digested under the bed.
• McKay The Disorganised
• Peet (the Pedantic Punctuation Policeman, Muse of Lateral Programming Ideas, Eggcups-Spurtle-and-Spoonswinner, BBC Cheese Namer & Zaphodista)

See all Friends

Followers

• Jak@wales
• McKay The Disorganised
• Universal Granny

See all Followers

Bookmarks

This user has no Bookmarks

See all Bookmarks